


my mouth is choked with worms

by doctormchotson



Series: A Force Far Too Great For Your Size [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Blood, Established Relationship, F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, Female John Watson, Flashbacks, Genderbend, Genderbending, Genderswap, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, PTSD, Panic Attack, Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Sherlock is actually pretty great at the whole comfort thing, Violence, graphic depictions of gore, kind of, the details on the "relationship" thing could use a little work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormchotson/pseuds/doctormchotson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Johnny Watson stood in the middle of the crowded Tube station at rush hour, Sherlock assaulting his mobile with his thumbs, and panicked.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In which Johnny has a panic attack, and Sherlock helps her cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my mouth is choked with worms

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags, mentions of potential triggers throughout.
> 
> Title from _Johnny Got His Gun_ :  
> 
>
>> "did anybody ever come back from the dead any single one of the millions who got killed did any one of them ever come back and say by god i'm glad i'm dead because death is always better than dishonor? did they say i'm glad i died to make the world safe for democracy? did they say i like death better than losing liberty? did any of them ever say it's good to think i got my guts blown out for the honor of my country? did any of them ever say look at me i'm dead but i died for decency and that's better than being alive? did any of them ever say here i am i've been rotting for two years in a foreign grave but it's wonderful to die for your native land? **did any of them say hurray i died for womanhood and i'm happy see how i sing even though my mouth is choked with worms?** "

Johnny Watson stood in the middle of the crowded Tube station at rush hour, Sherlock assaulting his mobile with his thumbs, and panicked. 

If the brutal genius to her right bothered to deduce her at the moment, it would be painfully obvious to him; elevated pulse, sweat blossoming on her brow, hands shaking with fine tremors, teeth clamped down on the delicate flesh of the inside of her cheek. As was typical, no one else would see anything was amiss. Her back was straight, her head was up, and she didn't say a thing when a particularly rude individual clipped her in the shoulder on his way past, not bothering to apologize. But inside her mind, she was unraveling at the seams. 

Because inside her mind, she was trapped in an Afghan market, sun high in the sky, pack heavy on her back and gun slippery in her hands with sweat and blood. 

It wasn't a flashback. Not really, not by clinical definition: she knew she was not, in fact, in Afghanistan. She just couldn't shake the oppressive heat, the scratch of sunburn on the back of her neck, the curious glances from the women in their brightly colored scarves, the ache of knowing one of her men was never going to make it home. 

She was never sure what set off these episodes. Some part of her brain stayed above the fray, medically curious as to the correlations and causes of such a stark psychological experience, but most of her was a bit more preoccupied with getting the fuck home. 

A baby cried to her left and she bit through her cheek. A woman laughed and it sounded like a shriek; Johnny clenched her fists until her blunt fingernails pierced skin. Someone dropped something heavy off to her right with an echoing bang and she had to forcibly stop herself from dropping into a defensive crouch. 

She must have twitched or whimpered or something because Sherlock snapped his head up, eyes twitching all over her face, down to her hands, and, inexplicably, to the laces on her shoes. Johnny stared straight ahead, images of the market overlapping with the Tube in a dizzying display. 

"Johnny?" Sherlock asked, voice calm and level. 

It took her two tries to respond, she had to swallow down the wildly inappropriate "That's Captain Watson to you, Corporal" her voicebox wanted to spit out. 

"Kandahar," she clipped out through gritted teeth. 

With firm fingers on her cheek, Sherlock turned her head to look him in the eye. Aside from that one heated kiss, it was the first time he'd touched her in the two weeks since she'd been shot. 

He slowly and calmly reached down for her hand, uncurled the tight fist, and turned so he could place it between his shoulder blades, completely uncaring of the blood now smeared on his precious coat. (Instead of crescents of pain she saw crusted smears of deep red drenching her palm. The image flickered: now, then, nowthen.) 

"Hold on." 

He spread his arms, stretching his imposing coat to new size, walking wider, parting the human sea like smoke. He took hits to the shoulders and body from people who didn't move out of the way fast enough but Johnny didn't feel a thing. She matched her stride with his effortlessly and buried her face in his coat, shaking hands clenched tightly in the fabric. With a great inhale she took in the scent and warmth and heat of him, washing the spice, sweat, and blood from her nostrils. (Now, then, nowthen.) 

Her ears she could do nothing about. Gunfire and laughter and death rattle breaths and the trill of a mobile all mingled in an unholy mess in her mind. (Now, then, nowthennowthen). 

"Steps," Sherlock's voice rumbled through his back, cutting through all other sound. She wanted to beg him to keep speaking, but her mouth was too dry. (Would she ever get the sand out from between her teeth?) 

Despite the warning she still staggered on the first stair. An enormous violinist's hand shot backwards and grabbed her by the jumper, holding her upright as they just kept going. She was off balance, dizzy, unsure if up or down even existed anymore, or if she was trapped in a hell with no gravity. 

Andrews screamed again in her ear while his blood sprayed across her face and danced along her tongue and a teenaged girl was swearing at her mother in Pashto using Bill's voice and - 

Rain. 

Soft patters of it played in her hair. Droplets coalesced on what little of her face was exposed and trickled into her collar. The sting of the cool, wet air rushed in her ear and cooled the phantom burn on the back of her neck. 

Cars honked and tires skidded in the damp and water ran down her fingers and washed away the blood. Sherlock's bespoke shoes snicked along the pavement, tap tap tap tap, and it sounds nothing like gunfire. (Now, now, now.) 

The cold seeped through her clothes and into her skin and she could feel the pain in her tight-clenched hands and on the backs of her eyelids she watched the little girl playing in the alley get her legs blown off. Sherlock shifted a shoulder and his sweat smelled like something she'd like to taste. (Now, now, nowthen, now.) 

They come to an abrupt stop and Johnny slides her arms around his middle until they are clenched tight. Sherlock grunts a bit. Johnny turns her face to the right so she can press her ear to his back and listen to his heart beat and his lungs expand and contract. (Now, now, now.) 

It's more awkward this way, so tightly pressed, but Johnny refuses to unclench herself, refuses to open her eyes, and Sherlock doesn't ask. They manage the stairs because he's too graceful to fall and she's too exhausted not to let him lead. The door opens and closes and they come to a stop and Johnny still doesn't relinquish her hold. She pulls them both backward until her back hits the closed door, sandwiching herself between solid wood and Sherlock. 

He breathes deeply, a silent instruction, and lets her cling. 

Andrews' voice is a whisper now. _'Save me, Doc, oh God.'_

The spices fade. The sand disappears from her socks. The little girl's scream quiets in her mind. 

Sherlock reaches up and gently grasps her right elbow with his left hand. 

(Now. Now. Now.) 

Johnny's face is wet. Her eyelashes stick together and clump when she slowly opens her eyes. She stares at the mingled view of Sherlock's back and the Victorian wallpaper. She breathes. 

With one last squeeze of Sherlock's middle and a press and roll of her forehead on his back, she straightens and slowly lets him go. He turns, still well within her personal space, and takes her face in his hands. He bends forward, eyes locked on hers, and simply looks for a moment. She is unselfconscious, and doesn't even consider wiping the tears from her face. 

She nods, and doesn't try for a smile. He nods and lets his hands fall away. 

"Tea, I should think," he states like a command as he turns to efficiently remove and hang his coat. 

_I love him_ , she thinks. She finds she's not as terrified of the thought as maybe she should be.

Sherlock stops abruptly halfway across the room. He spins and uses two long steps to come back within inches of her. With a grimace and a sigh through his nose he tucks an errant strand of close cropped hair behind her ear. He leans forward, telegraphing his intent, and presses a kiss to her lips, washing away the last lingering copper tang of years-old blood from her mouth. The kiss is chaste, sweet, and if she didn't know better, Johnny might even say it's loving.

"You're the strongest person I have ever met, Johnny," he murmurs, ridiculous eyes so close to hers she wonders if she could see the walls of his Mind Palace if she looked long enough. She wonders if he'd let her try.

With a gust of wind and a waft of shockingly expensive aftershave Sherlock whirls away.

"Now!" he says, clapping his hands together, "Where's my tea?"

Johnny resists the urge to brush her fingers along her buzzing lips and commences with the tea, only the slightest tremor in her hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> As always, concrit very much appreciated.


End file.
